- Chapter 10






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10
"I just might," suggested Daniels diffidently, "be able to establish Carlotti contact with Wanderer. I think that the time tracks will almost have converged by now."
"Mphm," grunted Grimes, giving thought to the possibility. Technologically his universe and the universe of the ex-Empress Irene were almost twins. At the time of his previous encounter with the so-called yacht she had possessed Carlotti equipment almost identical to his own. "Mphm." Then, "No, Mr. Daniels. Concentrate on that Waldegren destroyer. She's our main worry." He looked out through the view port and was relieved to see that Williams and the two marines, silvery figures trailing luminous blue exhausts, were almost back to the ship.
"Looks like being quite a party," commented Sonya. "The big, fat blonde, Irene, with her playmates, and our dear friends from Waldegren. . . ."
"No friends of mine," growled Grimes. "I was at the Battle of Dartura. . . . Remember?"
"Long before my time, dearie," she commented.
"Commodore! Sir!" broke in Carnaby. "A target, on the radar!"
"Not one of the derelicts, Mr. Carnaby?"
"No. It just appeared out of nothingness. It's closing on us, fast."
"Mr. Hendrikson—all weapons to bear. Do not open fire without orders. Mr. Daniels, try to establish contact. Commander Mayhew—is it Wanderer?"
"No, sir."
"Then who the hell. . . or what the hell. . . ?"
"Locked on, sir," reported Hendrikson.
"Good."
"Range still closing, but less rapidly. We should have her visually in a few seconds." said Carnaby.
"Thank you. Commander Williams, the telescope."
"Aye, aye, Skipper!"
"No contact, sir," murmured Daniels. "But I can hear the Waldegren ship again. She's still distant."
"I've got her in the telescope," drawled Williams. "Odd looking bitch . . . she's on the screen now, if you care to take a butcher's."
Grimes took a "butcher's hook," reflecting that life was already sufficiently complicated without his second-in-command's rhyming slang. The strange ship was there, exactly in the center of the circle of blackness, a silver moth pinned against the backdrop of the night. As she approached, her image expanded rapidly. She was a gleaming disc—but, Grimes realized, he was looking at her head on—from which sprouted a complexity of antennae. And then, slowly, she turned, presenting her profile. Apart from that veritable forest of metallic rods she was not unlike the Survey Service courier that had been Grimes' first command long ago, so very long ago, one of the so-called "flying darning needles." As yet she had made no hostile move. But, assuming that she was alien, captained by a nonhuman or, even, by a nonhumanoid, would a hostile move be recognized as such before it was too late?
Grimes flashed a glance at Hendrikson, hushed intently over his console. He was ready; possibly rather too ready. He looked back at the screen. He thought, he was almost sure, that the lines of the strange vessel showed a human sense of proportion. He snapped at Daniels, "Haven't you raised her yet?"
"I'm . . . I'm trying sir. I've tried every frequency known to civilized Man, and a few that aren't . . . Ah! Got it!"
There was a babble of sound from the speaker of the NST transceiver. Alien gibberings? No. . . . It sounded more like human speech, but horridly distorted, garbled.
Daniels spoke very slowly and distinctly into his microphone. "Rim Worlds Confederacy's cruiser Faraway Quest to unknown vessel. Faraway Quest to unknown vessel. Come in, please. Come in, please. Over."
In reply came the meaningless gabble.
Daniels was patient, carefully adjusting his tuning. "Faraway Quest to unknown vessel. Please identify yourself. Please identify yourself. Over."
"A shi? A shi?"
What ship? What ship? It could be, thought Grimes.
"A shi? A shi? Dringle na puss. Gleeble."
Tickle my puss? Hardly.
"We'll try visual," said Grimes. "Pass me the key, will you? I don't think that my Morse is too rusty."
Williams passed him the Morse key on its long lead. Grimes took it in his right hand, his thumb on the button. He sent a series of "A"s, the general calling sign. He assumed that somebody, by this time, would have the Quest's big searchlight trained on the stranger. He kept his attention on the image in the telescope screen.
Yes, he, whoever (or whatever) he was seemed to know Morse. The acknowledgment, the long flash, the Morse "T," was almost blindingly obvious.
"What ship?" sent Grimes. "What ship?"
From the other came a succession of "A"s. Grimes replied with "T". Then, "What ship?" he read. "What ship?"
So . . . so was the stranger repeating parrot fashion, or was he being cagey?
"What ship?" sent Grimes again. "What ship?"
"What ship?" he received.
He sent, not too slowly but carefully, making sure that each word was acknowledged, "Identify yourself, or I open fire."
He grinned when the reply came, "You'd better not."
He said aloud, "Not only human, but our sort of people." He flashed, "This is the Rim Worlds Confederacy's cruiser Faraway Quest. You are intruding into our sector of space. Please identify yourself."
"Imperial Navy's armed scout Vindictive. Rim Worlds Confederacy's Navy not listed in Jane's. Never heard of Rim Worlds Confederacy. Who the hell are you?"
"Commander Williams," said Grimes, "Jane's Fighting Ships is in the computer's library bank. Check Vindictive, will you? And the Imperial Navy."
"Will do, Skipper. But the only Imperial Navy we have is the Waverley one."
"I know. But check it, anyhow." Again his thumb worked rhythmically on the key. "This is Faraway Quest. This is Rim Worlds space. You are intruding."
"You are intruding."
Grimes grinned again, sent, "Can't we talk this over?"
For long seconds there was no reply. Carnaby reported that the stranger was no longer closing the range, was maintaining her distance. Hendrikson announced, unnecessarily, that his weaponry was still in a state of readiness.
Daniels asked, "Can I have the key, sir? If I have a yarn with her radio officer I shall be able to find out what frequencies to use. . . ."
And then Vindictive started flashing again. "Request permission to board."
"One man only," Grimes replied.
More time passed. Then, "Please prepare to receive my boat."
Oh, no, thought Grimes. Oh, no. The dividing line between a boat and a torpedo is a very narrow one. He was satisfied by now that Vindictive's people were humans; but the human race has a long record of viciousness and treachery, far too often actuated by the very highest motives.
"One man in a suit," he sent, "will meet one man in a suit, midway between our two vessels. They will return to Faraway Quest together. You may close the range between ships to ten miles. Do not forget that all my weapons are trained on you, and that my gunnery officer has a very itchy trigger finger." He said aloud, "And I have a very sore thumb."
"Agreed," sent Vindictive at last. "Closing. Please remember that you are a big target."
"Commander Mayhew," asked the Commodore, "can you pick up anything, anything at all, from those people?"
"Faintly . . ." replied the telepath slowly. "Very faintly. I sense suspicion, distrust. They will fire if they think that they are about to be fired upon."
"And so will we. And now—who's for the space walk? Don't all answer at once."
There was no shortage of volunteers, but Mayhew's rather high voice was distinctly heard above the others. "There's only one possible choice, sir. Me. When I get close to whoever they send I should be able to read his thoughts more easily. And Clarisse can look after the shop in my absence."
"Mphm. Very well, Ken. Get suited up. And—look after yourself."
"I always have done, John, all the years that you've known me." He said nothing to Clarisse, but it was not necessary. Accompanied by Williams he left the control room.
"Please let me know when you are ready," flashed Vindictive.
"Willco," replied Grimes.
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